It’s 11:11p and I’m taking a break from working on my novel’s synopsis (yes, I’m writing one this week, too.) to write this. You see, I need a moment of honest, cathartic release. So I turn to you, my friends who will undoubtedly understand where I’m coming from. Maybe. I hope.

Confession: I had one of those weekends when the gravity that we all wrestle against just anchored me down. You know, the gravity of reality that rips the wings off butterfly dreams and crushes our paper thin conviction that we can do it. Yeah, that gravity.

Maybe it was because I was sick and my wife was, too.  I’m grumpy when I’m sick. Maybe it was because I hadn’t slept much, or that I was stressing about my lack of progress on my writing last week. I get grumpy about those things, too. Whatever it was, I bought into the Voice’s smooth talking ways and began to believe that I just can’t do it. I can’t do it. What am I thinking? I have a full-time job, a wife, a daughter…I’m, I’m just a busy guy and maybe writing is just too hard. I mean, who does this to themselves on purpose?

I’ll tell you who: David Baldacci.